


For Your Own Sake

by Elillierose



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Arguments, Banter, Blood, Coughing, Fainting, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Infection, Injury, Poison, Sickfic, Smol bard must be protected, Whump, concussion, h/c, venom - Freeform, vomitting, wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22414897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elillierose/pseuds/Elillierose
Summary: When Geralt and Jaskier head into swamp lands in search of a Basilisk that's been preying on traders, they run into a much more dire situation. Their original target becomes the least of their worries when Jaskier is waging a battle against fever and blood loss.
Comments: 58
Kudos: 404





	1. Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, I have never played the games or read the books. I've only watched the show. ;w; Shameful, I know, but it looked interesting. I watched for Geralt and ended up falling in love with the pitiful bard. XD Came for the beef and stayed for the fluff. Anyway, I apologize ahead of time for any inaccuracies due to this, I tried my best and hop you all enjoy. OwO
> 
> Beta read by: [DragonRiderSayomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRiderSayomi/pseuds/DragonRiderSayomi)
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://elillierose.tumblr.com/) for questions or concerns.
> 
> Also, sorry about the weird formatting on this one. I've been busy so this was typed on my phone before work and during breaks. ;A;

“Is there really not a better path?” Jaskier whined under his breath after just narrowly dodging under a branch, released inches from his face. He huffed and cast an offended glance towards his Witcher counterpart. “And honestly? Not even a warning?”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed to himself, without so much as a glance back.

The bard stood there momentarily, mouth slightly agape in mock shock. “And not even an utterance of an apology!” His lips remained parted in preparation to continue, but he swiftly shut it at the hot huff of air that ruffled his hair. The brunet instantly turned on his heel to face their four-legged compatriot. “Don’t you start with me, too,” he said sternly, finger pointed directly at Roach’s muzzle.

“Don’t touch Roach.”

Jaskier nearly jolted. It was the first real words the other man had spoken in hours. And that was really all he had to say? Three words? Jaskier’s eyebrows rose slightly. “My, quite the chatterbox today, aren’t we?”

Geralt craned his neck just enough to reveal that unwavering, golden gaze. “Jaskier.”

His voice was curt. 

A warning.

The bard pressed his lips tightly together and nodded once, avoiding eye contact, and painfully obvious about it. Like water off a duck’s back, Geralt shrugged off the attempts at sympathy and turned back forward. 

“Alright...I get it,” Jaskier muttered readjusting his lute across his back. “No more talking.” He could practically hear the hum of the Witcher’s smirk. “What you need is a nice, lovely tune to lighten the mood.” All Geralt could hear was the shuffling of clothing and a strap. One strum reached his sensitive ears before he halted, shoulders square.

“No. More. Singing.” He was fully facing the younger man, expression frimer than his tone. “Unless you want to alert the whole damn region to our location.”

Jaskier appeared to fight internally with himself as the tips of his fingers tapped taut strings. He took a quick gander around, paying special close attention to the murky marsh that seemed to follow them on either side. His teeth played with the inside of his cheek as he listened to the occasional ‘plips’ on the opaque surface, giving his imagination access to all sorts of possible horrors lurking about.

Slowly, eyes now locked with the others, he replaced his lute.

“Wise choice,” Geralt huffed with a heavy hand on the brunet’s upper arm.

“Ow…”

Jaskier placed a light hand over the spot with a mild pout. 

“It’s still far too quiet for my comfort.”

“And yet not enough for mine.”

The bard twirled his thumbs around one another for a moment more before realizing he was falling behind. Even Roach had managed to pass him by. Still preoccupied with worrying what roamed just out of sight, he paid little mind to his foot placement. One awkward step, and his balance was thwarted by slick stone. He only had time to let loose a cry before the water began to fill his view. Squeezing his eyes shut, he readied himself for the chilled embrace.

He held his breath for a second...then two...three… 

“Hm?” Jaskier squeaked out, prying one eye open to find the water still a few inches away, suspended in time.

“This is why I told you to stay behind,” came the gruff chastise.

The other peeked out of the corner of his eye. The Witcher clutched the collar of his coat - one strong grasp separating him from his soggy fate. 

“Thanks,” the bard said once he cleared the unease from his throat. He straightened up with the help of a surprisingly gentle tug. Fixing his collar and stretching his neck from side to side, he swallowed any remnants of embarrassment. “You saved me from what was sure to be my final moments. Everyone shall know your brav-”

“Not how it happened.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

Geralt didn't need to say any other words; the furrow of his brow was all he needed to get his point across. That and a shake of his head before picking his pace right back up. 

Jaskier glanced at Roach. “Moody one, that one,” he whispered, receiving a small snort in return.

“I can hear you.”

The bard’s mouth mocked the words without a sound. Tightening the strap over his chest, he quickened his walk, not allowing himself to fall more than a couple feet behind the other man. The length of time he went without speaking had to have been some sort of record. Or Geralt assumed as much, anyway. As welcomed as the silence was, he couldn’t help but glance back occasionally to make sure the bard hadn’t gotten himself lost. Sure enough, there he was, still following close behind with a sulken air about him.

His feelings mattered not at the moment. He had more important priorities. Number one being a basilisk fond of making a menu of traveling traders. At least, that’s what he was told from not one, but two villages. The sooner this ordeal was dealt with, the better it would be for everyone. His fists clenched at his sides at the extra set of squelching steps sounded from behind.

And as if the hunt wasn’t treacherous enough - his thoughts were jarred thanks to another stifled yelp. He paused for a moment, knowing that splash wasn’t his imagination, and breathed heavily out his nose. Once was more than enough. This time, he stood with arms crossed as the bard clambered his way to his feet, water raining from his garments.

“You quite done?” Geralt asked, masking amusement with a scowl.

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks for asking.” He wrung out the ends of his coat and flung sheets of grimy mud from his sleeves, grimacing with every sling of his arms. “Just sodden and in emotional distrESS!” he finished with a particularly aggressive fling of his hands. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the rare outburst and eyed the other up and down. With a straight face, he said softly, “You...need a nap.” 

Jaskier stood, finger raised and mouth agape. He swiftly snapped his jaw shut and dropped his hand to his side. “You know what, you’re right, I do. I’m exhausted and now cold. We’ve been walking since sunrise.” His gaze drifted to the sky, noticing how pale it became with the approaching night.Very little light filtered through the bog to start with, only giving it all a later appearance. 

“You could be sleeping now if you’d just stayed behind like I told you to,” he mumbled, turning back.

Jaskier snorted under his breath. “And miss this wondrous tale!? I think not!”

The swish of the Witcher’s hair indicated a slow head shake. 

“Seriously though, I could really go for a short break. A few minutes at least. Just enough to dry my clothes by a fire and perhaps whip up a nice, toasty stew. You know, quick an-”

“We’ll set up camp when we’re out of the marsh,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier smiled slightly. “Well, if you insist.”

That seemed to be all he needed to lift his spirits, and plenty more to keep him in a mostly perky mood for the remainder of their walk. It was primarily filled with idle humming and mutterings. But Geralt supposed it was ideal compared to his usual rambles and more than occasional singing.

After some time, it became nothing more than an obnoxious buzz deep with his ear canal. Just a mere itch. In fact, becoming so accustomed to the white sound of Jaskier’s voice, it was almost jarring when it ceased. He might have been wary of the man’s activity if not for the continued, clumsy steps following suit to his. 

“I think something’s out there,” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt fought not to roll his eyes. “There’s a lot out there,” he answered, reply clipped. “I’d be worried if there weren’t.”

“Right,” the bard swallowed thickly. “How much longer until we’re out of here?” he asked, closing the short distance between the two of them. The stiffening of the other man’s shoulders was clear. “It can’t be too much longer, can it? I mean, just how far can this thing go on fo-”

“Do you ever shut the  _ fuck _ up?” His voice was low and quiet, but there was an icy edge that had Jaskier taking an instinctive step back. “Keep in mind, you invited yourself along for this. Not me. For the sake of the both of us, you should have stayed back like I said. So far, you have provided nothing but headache. So either stop bitching, or go back.”

“Oh…” Jaskier muttered, eyes dropping from Geralt’s gaze down to his own fiddling hands. Sure, there was a lot of insults and banter thrown his way during their times together, but there was something about the sharp glare that had the bard’s throat clenching. “Right then. Perhaps we should, uh, try to hurry and finish this up.”

For the first time, he took the lead. Keeping his head lowered and steps as light as he could, Jaskier strolled by the Witcher, making sure not to so much as brush his shoulder on the way by. He didn’t even spare a glance in his passing. Geralt simply glanced over his shoulder at the man’s back, but said not a single word. On the bright side, the young man’s strides were quicker and more sure when he was in a sour mood.

“Come on, Roach,” Geralt sighed, heading forward. This time, it was he who kept his distance. He wasn’t known to be the most socially adept, but he could tell when someone needed some space to cool down. And if he knew anything else, it was Jaskier was quick to get over things.

For about another hour, they traveled in thick silence. With each passing minute, though, the bard’s pace slowed more and more. One glance around at the poor lighting was all Geralt needed to tell just how late it was getting. Even when his keen sight, the muddiness of their surroundings was playing tricks on the eyes.

No words were exchanged as he quickened his stroll, easily catching up and placed a hand against Jaskier’s chest, silently urging him to take his spot behind once more. The other seemed more than willing to give the lead back. And once in the back, he stayed there, reserved and distanced.

‘ _ Just like him to sulk about,’  _ Geralt thought.

He continued to ignore this until his eyes finally caught a glimpse of ground that wasn’t consumed by muck. Hell, there was even some grass peeking through to greet the trio. The space was small, but it should be more than enough for them to hunker down until daylight. Seeing this, and wanting nothing more than to get this night over with, the Witcher made a beeline for it. Once there, setting up was quick when there were no distractions. And in a few short moments, a fire was flicking, chasing away the surface chill that clung to their skin.

Jaskier positioned himself until he was practically inside the fire, letting it absorb the icy remnants of his earlier mishap. Still, he avoided looking anywhere in Geralt’s general direction. Almost like he was putting effort into staring anywhere but.

“Are you really going to keep this up?” Geralt asked, a single fringe of white draping over his face.

“You’re the one that wanted me to shut up, remember?” the bard shrugged. 

“You’re being childish.”

“Oh, so doing what I was  _ kindly  _ asked is childish now, is it?” Jaskier shot back, cutting his attention over with hands extended over the flames.

The Witcher huffed loudly, halting in the sharpening of his sword to glare at the other through the orange hue. “No, but this incessant pouting is.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, just forced his eyes back to the fire and flexed his fingers over it. He shifted slightly, encouraging some of the material sticking to his back to peel away. He was still rather damp, but at least the worst of it was gone. Now the longer he stood there with nothing else to focus on, the more awkward the silence between them became. He switched his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m going to go get some firewood,” he said softly, just loud enough to be heard.

Geralt looked to his retreating back and gave a short warning, “Don’t stray too far, we don’t know what’s out there.”

Either Jaskier didn’t hear, or he was ignoring the man. Whichever it was, Geralt let it go. Maybe a solo walk was what he needed to cool off. He returned his focus to his weapon, shoving all other thoughts from his head. It mattered not what the bard chose to do; the guy wasn’t his responsibility. Jaskier was a grown man, not his charge. Even repeating this reminder to himself, he found himself occasionally glancing where the brunet had disappeared.

* * *

Jaskier stumbled and clumsily navigated his way through the brush. He had to admit, at least the ground was now a lot more stable. The whole time, he muttered under his breath, none of it particularly flattering. He crouched and scooped up a large stick, only to toss it aside when his fingers sank marginally into the mushy bark.

What was he even doing? There wasn’t likely anything dry within a hundred miles in either direction. There was little doubt they had already scrounged up the driest they could find, and all those were currently burning. Frustrated, he kicked another log, only getting it to roll a couple inches as he hissed, clutching the toe of his shoe.

“I hate this damn place,” he said between pressed teeth. Still rambling, he continued to search the ground with no success. At this point, it was clear even to him what he was doing.

He knew and he didn’t honestly care. There wasn’t much - for once - he wished to say to Geralt. Jaskier just wanted to give the man some time to get over his grumpy attitude. Though, if he were waiting for that, he’d be dead before any progress would be made. He kicked a pebble this time and watched it roll to a stop, digging slightly into the mud a few feet away.

Once his anger had a chance to begin simmering down, he took a deep breath and took in his surroundings for the first time, and he was then aware of how quiet and dark it was. Glancing around, swiveling his head, he saw no signs of their fire.

“Geralt?” he called out dryly. 

Nothing.

“Geraaaalt!?” he called louder, only getting his own voice bouncing back off trees. “Ah, shit…” 

_ ‘Think’, _ he told himself. ‘ _ What would he do?’ _ The bard scratched the back of his head. And leaned to his right side, gasping when his foot started to sink. Panicked, he jerked his head down as he yanked the appendage back. Staring down for a moment, his eyes widened.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, leaning over the impression left behind. His eyes followed the steps, still fresh easy to identify. “Hmph, I don’t need him, anyway,” he convinced himself, tracing over his trail with his gaze. Keeping his head down, he started following it back, careful not to stray or confuse himself with the cross paths where he had circled around aimlessly. Though, after about a minute of following, he raised his attention and his chest instantly tightened. It was still just as dark and silent as a few moments ago.

Jaskier searched the ground and saw his path was still stretching on. Just how far did he wonder? He didn’t think it was that far, but he wasn’t really paying attention. 

He took a step to continue, but stopped with his foot middair at the odd sound of a creak. It echoed from nearby, causing every hair to stand on end.

“H-hello?” he asked shakily, eyes wide and unblinking. There was no response. Of course there wasn’t. There wouldn’t be one. “Geralt...is that you?” he asked as another shuffling crept from just out of sight. He swallowed thickly, the lump threatening to lodge itself in his throat. 

Still no answer. Straightening up, he took one glance over his shoulder before following the sound - slowly. One hand found the handle of his lute, ready to swing should the need arise. The wood squeaked under his trembling touch. 

“I-I have a weapon…” he said softly, the words clinging bitterly to his tongue. He slid his feet along. “And I am NOT afraid to use it…” His voice trailed off and quieted. Jaskier inwardly cringed at every squelching step. If whatever was there didn’t know he was there, she sure as hell did then.

He held his breath as something wavered in front of his eyes. Whatever was there was doing a decent job at blending it. That was until his gaze drifted up and located the vivid red color just a foot higher than his head.

“Wha-what?” he stuttered, starting to lean in close, but stopped himself the moment a row of sharpened teeth glistened. Startled, he reeled back just in time to avoid getting his face chomped.

The bard stifled a scream and fell back. “The bloody  _ hell _ are you!?” he blurted, crawling back, kicking wildly to get away. There was no way he was going to get far that way. Without further hesitation, he scrambled to his feet and managed to take a single step. One step before another creaking of vines sounded out and something snapped, hard at his calf.

There was no holding back this cry as fire exploded in his leg, throwing the man back to the ground. He sucked in sharp through his teeth as he fought a wave of nausea that accompanied the pain.

“Geralt!?” he gasped, voice pitched. 

He continued to drag himself away, every tug sending a new wave of agony through his injured limb. Even in his dire situation, he thought of the potential infection from dragging the wound through likely bacteria-filled mud. The concern was second to getting away, though. Getting out of range of that...flower? Whatever it was, that was number one. 

Jaskier went to get up again. Even with a bad leg, hobbling would be faster than crawling at the rate he was going. Luckily adrenaline was on his side, and supported him enough to get upright. But every step after was like running his calf through with a searing sword. He had to get back. He  _ had  _ to get back to Geralt. Fuck their petty argument, he didn’t care about that anymore. The bard fumbled forward, throwing caution to the wind. Too much, perhaps, when his toe caught a root, sending him forward once more. He fell, farther than he thinks he should have. No, he wasn’t falling, he was rolling. Bracing himself, he squeezed his eyes shut just in time for the halting stop.

And what a stop it was. He didn’t know whether he should curse or thank the tree for catching him. On one hand, he was no longer headed to gods knows where, but on the other, there was now a throbbing ache in his head where he struck it. All he could do was let out a muffled groan as he forced the tendrils of unconsciousness from his mind.

The fuzziness was just barely shoved away enough for him to see a faint flicker of flame just up ahead. He couldn't be that far, surely. The Wticher just had to hear him, and he would be saved. Jaskier cleared his throat, which was far drier than he recalled.

Opening his mouth, he took a deep breath, “GERAL-” His throat instantly constricted, nearly gagging him. He let out a series of coughs as a foul flavor coated his mouth. Hacking against it, he was vaguely aware of a dusty cloud rising around him. 

‘ _ What is this?’  _ he wondered, watching as the gas thickened, clogging his airways. The more he breathed in, the more his lungs raged their protest. 

“Ge-alt!” he wheezed, one hand clutched to his chest as his vision began to cloud over.


	2. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the positive feedback! It means the world and really boosts the confidence for the rest of these. ;A; I'm even thinking of other prompts already for some more Jaskier fics. >:D
> 
> Beta read by: [DragonRiderSayomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRiderSayomi/pseuds/DragonRiderSayomi)
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://elillierose.tumblr.com/) for questions or concerns.
> 
> Anyway, here we are, chapter 2~ Hope you all enjoy.

Geralt’s head tilted at the tickling in his ears. His hand slowed to a stop, his stone dringing to a halt and he raised his head, gazing towards the edge of the thickets. It was deathly quiet aside from the crackling of flames, begging for more to consume. The man exhaled slowly through his nose as he rose to his feet and sheathed his sword.

“Jaskier,” he said quietly to himself.

He plucked one of the sticks protruding from the fire and held it forward. It had been some time since the bard had left, longer than he was comfortable with. He couldn’t help but imagine just what kind of trouble the kid got himself into. One step forward and the light was already illuminating the foliage with glistening specks. Geralt lowered the flame, creating a highlighted halo around the first of many footprints.

The Witcher straightened up, and slowly, with purpose, began following the trail his compatriot left for him.

* * *

His head was pounding - chest and leg thumping in time with it. Each raspy breath he drew in sent forth a new current of flames through his torso. Jaskier coughed harshly and tried to roll over, to get back to his feet. Even in his disoriented state, he could practically sense the danger he was still in. Could still  _ hear  _ the slithering of leaves and vines and  _ smell _ the sickly sweet aroma that wafted with that thing’s movements.

As badly as he wanted to give in, to just drop his head and call it a day, he refused to allow himself to succumb. He blinked drearily, trying to blink the drowsiness from his vision. But every time he opened his eyes, the image before him was blurrier. 

With each failed attempt, when his world was veiled in darkness, he feared he wouldn’t be able to open them again. His eyelids were just getting heavier and his body was pleading more consistently for sleep. He almost tempted the thought - his eyes were half-closed when they snapped back open and he gasped in another breath. He wasn’t sure if it was just him or if it really was getting harder to breath.

He sucked in a prickling inhale, irritating his already stinging lungs. Jaskier was vaguely aware of the desperate wheeze coming from his throat with the action. It hadn’t sounded like a noise he could have produced, but there was nowhere else it could have come from. 

The bard pried an eye open, and nearly let it slip again if it weren’t for an odd shape that caught his attention.

‘Geralt,’ he mouthed, flinching when no sound escaped - just a raspy and scratchy breath. It was like inhaling slivers of glass. He squeezed his eyes shut as something - someone charged past him, ruffling his moistened hair with the gust it created. The chill it sent down his spine was actually rather nice, as it assisted in easing the pounding heat that had started traveling up his leg.

But just as quickly as it came, it was snatched away, leaving the man longing for more. A small whimper leaked past his lips with his want. He realized he had even rolled slightly in the direction it originated from. His hand reached desperately, but didn’t get far before it flopped to the ground with his waning energy.

“Ge’lt,” he rasped, voice cutting off into another series of coughs.

His eyes were squeezed tight, only giving him warped sound to work with. There was a scuffle going on, that he was sure of. The slicing of a sword and grunting with the effort. No doubt Geralt was battling that thing and hope surged through his chest. That or his lungs were throbbing twice as painfully. 

He couldn’t be sure how long the fight went on for, and him slipping in and out of wakefulness distorted his sense of time further. All he knew was the next time he opened his eyes, a shadow bore over him; and the next thing he felt was overwhelming fear. Something grazed his shoulder, and most of his remaining strength went to trying to pull away from the foreign touch.

Something was whispered close to his ear, he couldn’t make out the words, but the voice had his racing mind calming marginally. He squinted, trying desperately to clear his vision. But all he could discern was that same silhouette, blocking out a section of waving hues of orange and yellow. It was hot; both in and outside of his body.

“...askier…”

He hummed at his fractured name. He wanted to reply, but every attempt was equivalent to claws raking down his windpipe.

“Shh,” he was hushed, and he realized his body was being shifted lightly. 

Jaskier instantly obeyed the soft command and clamped his mouth, jaw tight. The moment his leg changed positions, though, it unhinged to let a pitiful whine escape. As if on cue, all movement stopped and he was allowed a few seconds to steady his breathing. However, it seemed a moment too late as colored blossoms entranced his vision. Bursts that dimmed and dispersed, stealing a little more of his consciousness with every fade.

* * *

“Jaskier?” Geralt called out lowly, one hand hooked around the bard’s shoulders. His other gently patted his pale face, getting little more than a raspy groan. Other than that, the man was unaware of anything. The Witcher let out a slow sigh through his nose and glanced towards the burning scene just a few feet away. Charred leaves crumbled as the thing still silently writhed, flailing ash and embers all about. They were lucky this place was a sodden mess, or they may have a completely different problem on their hands.

He dropped his eyes back to the brunet, limp against his lower arm. His golden gaze fell instantly to the thin trail of blood trailing from his hairline and then the wound that produced it. He brushed a few strands away, his fingertips glancing over pallis skin enough to feel the beginnings of fever.

“Fuck,” he muttered, taking his hand away. He had to get them back to their camp. At least he didn’t have to be as careful now. He slinked his free arm under the bard’s knees and lifted with ease. Despite being unconscious, Jaskier still managed a weak whimper when his injured leg was jostled. 

Geralt held his charge close, wrapping his arms securely around the fragile frame. He never really realized how light the man was, as if dropping him would be enough to break him. It was no wonder he was constantly urging them to stop for a rest. 

Jaskier bounced lightly in his arms with every step. And the whole time, Geralt struggled to tear his eyes away from the weariness of his features. Staring at his pale complexion and his labored breathing made the journey back far more streneous. And by the time he did return, Jaskier’s hair was sticking in strings to his forehead. 

As gently as he was able, he placed Jaskier as close as he dared to the fire. The harsh lighting only gave a more stark contrast to his features. The Witcher shook any unease lingering in his mind and moved to sit near the man’s leg. That’s the part the most worried him right then. Even without proper light, he could see how soaked the fabric was with fresh blood - a stain that still spread its crimson fingers. 

Taking a small blade, he sliced clean through the material, and winced the moment he could lay eyes on the marred appendage. It wasn’t what he could consider a clean tear - quite the opposite. A sizable chunk had been torn from the back of his leg, edges red and aggravated - swollen slightly. He didn’t need to touch it to know how warm the wound was. 

“Venom…” he grunted, lips pressed.

A quick swear left him as he reached for his bag. He was no healer by any means, but he hoped his basic knowledge would be more than enough. There wasn’t a second option here. Geralt dug through his meager belongings until his hand brushed over what he was looking for. His collection of herbs wasn’t what he would call impressive. 

The Witcher filtered through until he came across the particular bunch he was looking for - celandine. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he had and would have to do. It would just have to work for the time being, until they could get to an  _ actual  _ healer. He mumbled a quiet apology and pressed the plant against the wound. Jaskier’s reaction was instant as he gasped in a sharp whimper. He tried to turn to his side to escape the pain, and would have accomplished the task if Geralt hadn’t grabbed the young man’s shoulder with his other hand.

“Calm yourself,” he encouraged, unsure if his voice was reaching the ailing bard. “This should help.” His brows pinched. It may help with the wound itself, but he wasn’t sure he could do much for the pain, if anything at all. 

And the blood loss.

The bright liquid was seeping between his fingers, warm and free flowing. He had to put a stop to it, quickly.

He took his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder to dig through his things some more. He may not have had much, but he made sure to keep the essentials on hand at least. Though, he was used to treating his own injuries as opposed to another’s. Geralt hummed as he procured the meager roll. Taking about half of the bandages, he folded them and pressed them against the brunet’s leg, using them to keep the herbs in place and began wrapping snuggly with the rest. The bard whined and hissed almost the entire time.

“Sorry, but it has to be done,” The Witcher assured.

As if his words were heard, Jaskier settled. That or his weakened protests drained what little strength he had in him. His breaths still hitched here and there, giving way to just how much discomfort he was in. At last, the wound was bound and Geralt allowed himself a small relieved exhale.

With not much else to do, he reached up and draped the back of his hand against Jaskier’s forehead and hummed at the fever that lashed from his skin. He wasn’t completely sure, but he was convinced it was higher than before. In such a short amount of time, too…

Sighing heavily, the older man got to his feet, strolled over to Roach to give a small pat as he grabbed the rest of their things. All but one bedroll was tossed to the ground. He carefully unrolled it next to his human compatriot, making sure it was on even ground. Once satisfied, he crouched next to the bard and eased his arms under the frail man.

Without a word of preparation, he transferred the bard over and eased him down. Of course, this didn’t go without it’s own series of groans and whines. But there was one in particular that had Geralt snapping his gaze to Jaskier’s features. They twitched in the soft light of the fire as the beginning of a rasping grunt climbed up the man’s throat.

Not long after, his shoulders shook with a wet series of coughs, an episode that had the man desperately gulping for air when it was over. And, Geralt noticed, two slivers of dulled blue were visible under heavy lids.

“Jaskier?” he said softly. 

His inhales were coming in fast and frantic. At that rate he was going to cause himself to pass out. Fear was still gripping at his heart. Geralt peered into his glassy eyes, ravished by fever; it was no wonder he was still in a deluded panic.

The Witcher just had to swallow his pride and place both hands on the man’s shoulders firmly and lean over him with minor pressure. It really didn’t take much to pin him.

“Jaskier, settle down, will you? You’re fine now.” He didn’t intend to grasp the man so tightly, but his writhing was doing nothing but harming himself further. Already, red specks decorated the surface of his wrapping. Much more of this and he was going to render what work Geralt did completely useless. “Are you trying to hurt yourself you dumbass?” he growled between grit teeth.

It was gradually, but eventually the bard started to wear himself out until he was panting for breath between light coughs. Each one rattled his chest and had the older man’s brow furrowing deeper. Sounded like that was getting worse as well.

“-alt?”

The voice was so strained, he almost didn’t hear it. “Yeah,” he replied after a short pause, “It’s me.” Jaskier’s eyes opened a degree more, revealing more of their glazed over sheen. “How are you feeli-”

“Go’na be sick,” he choked out, one hand immediately going to his mouth. He struggled to sit up, a new kind of fear gracing his expression. Knowing the limited time, Geralt took it upon himself to wrap an arm around the other man’s shoulders and help him to the edge of the marsh. It was more along the lines of him half carrying and half dragging the bard, though. Regardless of the means, they made it just in time for the brunet’s shoulders to heave. One strong arm remained on his chest to keep him knelt upright. It still wasn’t enough to keep him from wavering on the spot.

After what felt to be about a minute of the musician retching, he finally lifted his head with labored breaths, a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Are you done?”

Jaskier didn’t dare open his mouth, so he settled for subtly nodding instead. As Geralt assisted him to his feet, he realized the man was shaking. Damn near trembling against him, like standing was actually taking everything he had.

The Witcher took close note of this as they hobbled back to the fire; Geralt making sure his younger charge didn’t place his right foot down for even a second. The last thing he needed was to put pressure on that leg. No doubt it would be a while before he would be walking normally again. 

Once again, Jaskier was lowered to his back with no hidden signs of discomfort. If anything, he was more vocal now that he was awake. For once, Geralt didn’t blame him. That wound wasn’t pretty and Archespore venom was no joke. He was lucky to have gotten away from that thing at all. He looked again down to his leg, blotched with more red. That was all the bandages they had on them… 

If it continued to bleed as it were, a healer would be needed sooner rather than later. Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose with a low growl. But the Basilisk couldn’t be far, and if they found it, he knew he could make quick work of it. They could return, get their reward, and get Jaskier the help he needed. Two birds with one stone

He lowered his head, trying to debate in the limited time offered.

“Fuck…” he whispered, making his decision after short deliberation.

He pressed a palm to his forehead and then cast a stern gaze at the other. “We need to get you back to civilization,” he announced matter-of-factly.

“What’bout th’asalisk?” Jaskier slurred, barely able to keep his eyes open. He now bore a light pink tinge to his features. His breathing was hitching more frequently and the licking flames made the sweat coating him all the more obvious. The toxins were waging war in his body, and they were showing no intentions of bestowing mercy. 

Geralt grunted and glanced to the sky. “It’s not going anywhere. I’m taking you back, and then coming back here...alone.” Not that he thought Jaskier would be capable of following in his state. “Think you can hold out until morning?”

Hesitation. But it was clear from the tight features that the bard was processing the question. For far too long. Then he nodded once and squeezed his eyes shut. Face paling drastically. Geralt assumed it was a second nauseous assault. His back arched slightly as he fought down the urge. He swallowed compulsively a few times until the acidic burn subsided. 

“Good?”

Jaskier hummed in affirmation. “Yeah,” he mouthed, offering a forced smirk. He took a slow and steady breath, willing his body to release some of its pent up tension. “M’g-good.” His lashes fluttered a bit as his body relaxed further.

Geralt clapped one solid hand on the other’s arm and gave a supportive squeeze. “Just try to sleep some.”

Again, Jaskier risked the smallest of nods and leaned his head back all the way. It took no time for the man to start to drift away. It was a fitful process, filled with groans and whimperings, but soon he was out and back to relatively even breathing. Still, the occasional fumbled exhale graced him. 

Just like that, the Witcher was back where he started, watching over a sick, sleeping bard. How did he always manage to get himself into these situations? The man was a danger magnet. Geralt lowered his head and shook it slowly. It was going to be a slow night. Knowing this, he frequently checked the brunet’s fever and the bandages wrapped around his leg.

He really was not liking how it was still bleeding so freely. It should have slowed significantly by then. Jaw set, he pinched the edge of the strips gently. Carefully, he peeled the end back, pausing every time Jaskier flinched or whined in his sleep. Turning his head to get a better look, the man pulled the material back the rest of the way.

Geralt had to suppress a cringe. The wound was still reddened around the edges, red that darkened and spindled from the wound, branching through veins like crimson webs. It was spreading - fast. He knew for a fact that as he watched, one of them stretched another millimeter.

Waiting until morning might not be an option after all.


	3. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for all the feedback. Beyond pleased y'all are enjoying this mess of a ride. XD One chapter left after this one~
> 
> Beta read by: [DragonRiderSayomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRiderSayomi/pseuds/DragonRiderSayomi)
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://elillierose.tumblr.com/) for questions or concerns.

His chest felt as though it were caving in on itself, every breath seemingly pushing his ribs to their limits. He made up for it with short, shallow gasps. As small as those were, they still dragged a sandpapery sensation down his dried throat. Fire raged through his veins, extending over every inch of his body. Even the slightest twitch of his fingers lit aflame new embers.

In short, he was miserable. Jaskier floated in a strange state of half-wakefulness. Somewhere between worlds.

The bard tried to swallow down the bitter taste lingering on his tongue, only to gag at the sickly flavor. 

' _ Damn, that hurts,'  _ he thought as the tang struggled past his throat. Something warm trailed down his cheek. For a moment he thought it to be a bead of sweat,which would make sense with the heat ravishing him from the inside out. But it was quickly followed by a second, both sprouting from the corner of his eye.

He wasn't actually crying, was he? If not for the flaming tips of fever's fingers grasping his lungs, he might have cared enough to be embarrassed.

Whatever the case, the droplets didn't loiter for long before something swiped them away. His face scrunched as he racked his brain through the haze. Whatever it was continued to dap at his face, cleaning more than just escaped tears.

He wanted to ask, but the question lodged in his chest, where it deformed into sputtering coughs. His next inhale was pinched with pain before a couple more hacks shook his small frame.

Past the wheezes and pounding in his ears, he caught a distant tone. A voice. It accompanied the touch he kept sensing on his features.

As much of a struggle as it was, he got one eye open by a fourth of an inch and searched through the fog blanketing his vision. His eye drifted slowly from side to side, flinching when an orange blaze assaulted his view. Not a second later, that voice was back, along with another touch on his cheek. The touch felt almost cool in comparison to his sticky skin. It guided his head, and gently turned it away from the offending brightness.

"...skier…"

"Mmm…" the bard hummed, his own voice booming in his abused skull. He tried to lift a hand to his head, but the limb was heavy and just dropped back to his side.

"Jaskier?"

' _ Geralt?'  _ he wanted to say, but he knew it came out as some sort of combination between a rasp and a sob.

' _ Dammit!' _

Another shushing sound and a firm hand flat on his chest. Strong, yet light. With that, the dabbing moved to his forehead, and he realized the sensation he'd been feeling was a damp cloth. He eased himself back, trying his best to suppress another series of coughs. All that achieved was creating an aching burn in his lungs to the point of not holding it back.

This only lasted a few seconds. His chest rebelled as he choked against his efforts. And once the floodgates opened, shutting it appeared a hopeful thought.

His chest begged for mercy and his head pulsed with every cough. Fresh, hot tears streamed down his face as he fought to pull in a new breath.

_ He couldn't breathe! _

__ His hand flailed to his chest as he clawed at the fabric. Everything was too damn tight. His clothes, his muscles, even his skull felt too constricted. 

Just when he feared of passing out from lack of oxygen, his position shifted, his world tilted to the left as his left cheek kissed cool earth.

A supportive hand remained planted on his chest to keep him from completely rolling over. The other pressed steadily on his back as Jaskier continued to cough - an acidic burn teased the base of his throat. It didn't take much thought to know what was coming next. His shoulders heaved the second he realized.

Between the retches, he thought he heard something sounding like "It's alright."

But that's all he could make out behind the ringing blaring in his ears. So instead he focused on the steady pats on his back as the retching hit him in waves. 

One agonizing minute after another, his insides finally began to settle, permitting him to take in a deep, greedy breath. It filled his lungs, and he ignored how they fought against the amount. The relief greatly outweighed the discomfort.

Sourness had soaked into the back of his tongue, so each inhale brought with it the bitter taste of bile.

"You're alright," he heard again, a lot clearer. "Can you hear me?"

The bard huffed out and nodded. "Y-ah." It was so quiet, a little less than a whisper. But Geralt heard him, he could tell by the slight repositioning of his hand.

"Th-nk 'ou," he squeezed out between heavy pants.

"Shhh," Geralt urged. "Try not to speak too much. You have little energy to spare as it is. Don't waste it with more talking or it might actually be your undoing." His voice may have been as gruff as ever, but the undertone those words carried made Jaskier’s chest clench for a different reason.

Jaskier could only nod. To be honest, he was almost too afraid to open his mouth again. 

Slowly, he was helped back down. Almost as soon as his back touched the bedroll, the exhaustion of the last few minutes washed over him. Geralt merely watched, giving him the chance to regain some of his composure.

When the Witcher assumed it to be as good as it was going to get, he sighed. "We need to go back." It was straight to the point, his tone left no room for arguments or debate. "We'll go back the way we came, get you some actual help." He spoke slowly, yet with conviction. "There isn't much I can do out here."

The bard sucked in a sharp breath with a wince. "What'bou-"

"I said stop talking," the older man cut in with a tight expression. "The Basilisk can wait. I already told you, Jaskier, I'm going to come back alone." His eyes instinctively glanced at the brunet's marred leg. It still bled. Slowly, but too much for his own comfort.

Left with no other choice, Jaskier nodded and closed his eyes tightly. He really had no choice. Even if he didn't agree, what could he really do? Nothing but bitch and moan and make the trip harder than it needs to be.

"We'll be leaving shortly," Geralt announced. "As soon as I gather our supplies. I was going to wait until dawn, but I fear that may be fatal."

' _ Fatal?' _

__ "Wha-?"

"Quiet." Geralt brushed his hands back and sat back on his heels. "Freaking out and raising your pulse isn't going to help matters any." He grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. "I'm grabbing our things. I'll be nearby if you need anything."

Jaskier could only give another small nod and take as deep a breath as he dared to through his nose. He closed his eyes and listened to the commotion of the other moving about, scuffling as things were clumsily put together. Even with his eyes shut, the fire seemed far too bright.

He threw an uncoordinated arm over his face, shielding the worst of it.

Damn, he was exhausted. With no distractions, nothing to focus on other than his own delirious thoughts, sleep tugged at his mind. As hard as he fought to keep himself from slipping, it all ended up being in vain.

Time was a lost concept, and there was no telling how long he drifted off for. The dim lighting created by the marsh's ceiling hindered any possibility of knowing. So when his body was jarred from his rest and his eyes slipped partway open, confusion enveloped him.

"Gr'alt," he slurred. It wasn't a question.

The mentioned man hummed as he pulled the smaller into his arms. This close, the Witcher felt the heat wafting off in droves. It was almost a dry heat. With the bard's head resting against his shoulder, there was no way to be unaware of Jaskier's shaky breaths brushing scorchingly over his neck.

"Don't get used to this," the silver-haired man warned as he eased his cargo onto Roach's back. The horse huffed and stamped a single hoof with the unfamiliar weight. He climbed on right after before Jaskier could slump to the side. As he righted himself, the younger man naturally leaned into him, almost like he was seeking the man's warmth. Like he needed anymore of that.

But with the way the man instantly relaxed, Geralt couldn't bring himself to pry the bard away. He tried to convince himself that the more comfortable Jaskier was, the easier this journey would be.

Making sure the brunet was secure enough, Geralt gave Roach a firm nudge, urging the mare onward.

All it took was that first step for Jaskier to truly stir, whimpering quietly as his leg bounced against the horse's solid frame. The fact that was the most sound he was making rang alarm bells loud and clear. Even when he knew the bard to be in considerable pain, he voiced his discomfort for all to hear. But now…

The unnatural quiet was nearly too much to bear. He’d grown so accustomed to his companions singing and rambling, that it was nearly unsettling to only hear the steady stamping of hooves. Each stomp was like a punch in the gut, and his free arm wrapped unwittingly across Jaskier’s chest. A protective gesture that had the younger man groaning lightly.

The brunet’s head lolled limply, falling to lie trustingly on the Witcher’s forearm He turned, burying his face in the crook of Geralt’s arm. The latter only looked down for a moment - raising an eyebrow at the odd position, but let him be. As long as Jaskier was comfortable, he supposed.

It was still a few hours before sunrise, and all he could do was count the seconds. Seconds that dragged into painful minutes by the shuddering puffs against his arm. The more he paid attention to the hot sensation, the more his brow lowered. He tried to shove it out of his mind; there was no use worrying himself over something he could do nothing about.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted, anyway. All his concentration was needed in navigating their way out of the area. The  _ last  _ thing they needed was to get stuck in some mud. He steered his mount on the most solid path he could while still keeping their pace as quick as possible. If only they could hurry up and get to more stable ground. His hand gripped the reins tighter, giving the leather a quiet whine. 

No sooner had Jaskier coughed lightly, an action Geralt would have simply ignored.  _ Would have _ . Were it not for the warm droplets that sprinkled over his arm.

The Witcher’s eyes cut down, head remaining forward.

“Fuck,” he more or less mouthed, grip unconsciously loosneing around his leather hold. His eyes widened as they rested on the crimson blotches. They were small and few, but they bore a heavy contrast.

Geralt leaned around a few inches to see the thin trail of blood dripping from the corner of the smaller man’s mouth. He watched for a few seconds more and allowed his mind to calm when more didn’t immediately follow suit. Jaskier even settled down once more. 

He shifted, shuffling the bard to sit farther back so he could get a better hold, getting ready for the moment they crossed that marshy threshold. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable ride, but in exchange for his life, he was sure Jaskier would forgive him. He took one steady, deep breath as they broke through and Roach’s first hoof clacked on stone. The moment that sound reached his ears, he gave a nudge and his horse instantly understood.

Their speed nearly tripled, causing both riders to jolt rather harshly. Unexpectedly, a weak hand shot up and clutched Geralt’s wrist, the one wrapped around the bard. His entire body stiffened, going rigid against the Witcher’s chest. Brown hair ruffled with the movement of his head, lifting away from its purchase on the other’s arm. Instead it leaned back, pushing up just under Geralt’s chin, which rose to provide more space.

“S-ry,” he muttered almost incoherently. For a moment, the Witcher couldn’t discern whether it was sleep mutterings or not. But when he repeated the strained word - more choppily - Geralt huffed heavily, ruffling brown strands with the exhale.

“Can’t shut up even now, can you?” he said flatly. His tone, however, lacked it’s normal agitation.

Jaskier choked on an inhale, folding over as another fit claimed dominion over his lungs. Immediately, Geralt slowed their speed until the worst of it subsided. The ordeal was short, but it left the barded winded all the same, panting for a decent breath. He swiped a trembling hand across his mouth, the Witcher watching as it came away smudged with more red stains. 

“Shallow breaths,” Geralt said softly. He slowed down even more seeing the bard was still struggling to manage anything more than a gasp. No longer caring about intentions, he reached a hand around and pressed it firmly across the brunet’s cheek, cupping his face carefully. 

He was absolutely burning up. Then it dawned on him: all the sweating and vomiting, and not once since he found Jaskier had he drank so much as a sip of water.

“ _ Dammit,”  _ he hissed between grinding teeth. “Jaskier, do you think you can hold some water down?” He didn’t wait for a reply as he was already reaching for his waterskin. There wasn’t a lot in there, but it should be enough to hold a sick bard over long enough. 

As expected, Jaskier sluggishly shook his head once, drawing in another wheezing gulp. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Geralt said firmly. “You need something, and it should help.” His point was emphasized by the popping of the container. Holding it out for Jaskier to take, he realized just how much the bard’s hands trembled, making it impossible for him to hold anything without instantly dropping it. 

Sighing, the older man used one hand to help tilt Jaskier’s head back as he rose the lip of the skin to dry and chapped lips. “Drink slowly,” he instructed.

He definitely didn’t have to worry about him chugging the stuff when he refused to part his lips. His shoulders convulsed with his lungs need to dislodge whatever they believed to be cramped in there. 

“ _ Jaskier, _ ” he warned, giving his jaw a gentle squeeze, trying to encourage it to unhinge just enough. “Stop being a stubborn child and drink the  _ damn  _ water.” The others features were scarily pallid, almost tinged with ashy grey as he imagined anything going down his throat. “If you don’t, you’re going to make yourself more ill from dehydration,” he attempted to reason. His tone was returning to its casual frustrated growl. 

Geralt looked upon the bard’s expression for a moment longer, catching that unmistakable  _ fear  _ sparking behind dulled eyes. He blinked once, slowly, and drew in through his nose. “Jaskier, trust me,” he muttered softly.

The brunet stiffened a degree more before slowly relaxing marginally. His frame still shook with tension, but it was much less so. 

“Good, now all I want is for you to take one sip, alright? I’m not asking for much here. If that stays down,  _ then _ I want you to try drinking more.”

That did the trick as Jaskier forced himself to nod and opened his mouth just enough to allow a small amount of water to trickle in. The moment it hit his tongue, though, he clamped his jaw back shut, teeth clacking from the sudden action. He shook his head and swallowed hard, cringing as the liquid practically scraped its way down.

He whined quietly and choked down a burning gag.

“Good?”

The bard didn’t answer for a few seconds, battling with the fresh nausea the water brought about. Luckily, the sensation was short lived and he managed an assured hum. “M’good,” he breathed, after another minor cough. 

Giving a nod of his own, Geralt glanced to the sky, still dark but with a kiss of light blue spilling over the stars. 

“Alright, we must keep moving,” the Witcher announced, increasing their speed once again. With Jaskier more awake than he was previously, his discomfort was much more vocal. Not by a lot, but there was the frequent whimper and groan. No actual words were uttered, nothing more than an occasional strained swear. No doubt the journey was rough on that leg. And the spreading red upon its surface never slipped Geralt’s mind.

He needed a distraction.

“How’re you feeling?”

Surprisingly, Jaskier chuckled bitterly before sucking in a pained breath. “B’n Bet’r,” he rasped. He left it at that. Going back to pouring all his concentration into not hacking his organs up. 

Before Geralt could say another word, Roach hopped as gently as she could over some fallen debris in their path, jarring the both of them in the process. Jaskier cried a strangled sound when his bad leg slammed against the mare. White flashed before his eyes. Pale fingers dug into Geralt’s arm and his head thrust back against the man’s shoulder, pressing into it with more strength than the bard was thought to have. His eyes fluttered rapidly, and the Witcher was able to physically watch as consciousness started to slip between his fingers. 

“Jaskier, stay with me, now,” Geralt patted the younger man’s cheek, eliciting a small moan. “That’s it.” He guided Jaskier’s head to rest against his arm once more and peered down at the bard’s injured leg. Teeth sank into his bottom lip at the sight of the soiled bandages. Blood was soaking through to where there was more red than white.

He watched as the bright color spread by another centimeter. 

His chest throbbed as his heart sank into the pit of his stomach. He pulled Roach to a full stop, hopping off with one hand firmly on Jaskier’s arm, holding him in place. But his eyes were focused purely on the wounded limb. 

With much less care than he had earlier, he peeled the bandages back, revealing the wound just as the first rays of dawn broke through the night’s veil, creating a perfect spotlight on the festering bite. Darkened veins branched higher up his leg, spreading like tainted roots. It was spreading faster.

His eyes scanned up to the bard’s face, staring down in a pleading confusion. The brunet’s own clouded eyes widened at the sight of his appendage. Jaskier’s gaze darted from his leg to Geralt’s concerned stare, and no more than a whisper ghosted over his trembling lips,

“Cut’t off.”


	4. The Risks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last chapter for this one. I definitely want to write more for these two at some point. Had so much fun writing them~ It's just a matter of choosing what to do it about. XD
> 
> Beta read by: [DragonRiderSayomi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRiderSayomi/pseuds/DragonRiderSayomi)
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://elillierose.tumblr.com/) for questions or concerns.

“Cut’t off.”

Geralt rolled his eyes as he covered the wound back up. “Quit being so dramatic. We don’t need to remove it just yet.” Though, from the looks of it, it may not have been long before it came to that. The venom was steadily spreading, and he was sure that’s why it continued to bleed as it were.

Jaskier watched the older man with widened eyes as the Witcher took his place back behind him, scooting close enough to provide physical support. The bard gratefully accepted and leaned back completely - though it was likely due to him lacking the energy to do anything but.

“If we go at a steady pace, we can be there by midday,” Geralt assured, giving Roach an encouraging tap with his foot. She instantly obeyed and picked up where she had left off - at a brisk trot. It wasn’t as fast as he would have liked to have been going, but it was as slow as he was willing. And despite the fair speed, Jaskier was still stifling his pained protests. 

The Witcher would never admit it, not in a million years, and especially not to the bard, but he couldn’t help a growing sense of unexpected respect for the man. He may have been an overdramatic dumbass the majority of the time, but he at least had some pride when it counted. Regardless of the agony Geralt knew him to be in, he was doing well to retain all the composure he could.

They rode on in silence. One too exhausted to say anything, and the other too concentrated on counting every labored breath. Each breath that seemed to grow more raspy with every other inhale.

“You still with me?” Geralt asked after about an hour.

Silence.

“Jaskier?”

A hitch in the usual pattern, and then, “Hmm?” His voice was hoarse and low, like he’d just woken up from a restless slumber. Hell, that likely wasn’t too far off the mark. His head lolled back, his forehead rubbing against Geralt’s jaw. The latter pressed his lips together as fevered currents wafted off, the stench of sweat strong. Geralt cut his eyes down: the slight sheen had developed into full-blown droplets on the man’s face. 

“Are you still alright?”

He already knew the answer to that, but he needed to hear the bard’s answer.

Another moment of hesitation, as if the words needed time to form in his discombobulated mind. “F’ne,” he slurred, word cut off by a whimper. His head turned until his left cheek was against the side of Geralt’s neck. Were it not for his unfortunate situation, the brunet would have been on the ground a second later. With the man’s face so close to his ear, the Witcher could make out every shuddering wheeze with each exhale. His breath was far too hot against his skin.

It would be fine though. They were over halfway there. Geralt would get Jaskier to a healer, and they would get him fixed up. And yet, no matter how much he told himself this, the image of that wound in the back of his head made him fear the worst scenario. What if Jaskier was right? What if they did end up having to remove it? That’d be it for the bard, subjected to a sedentary life. The thought of it coming to that had him pushing Roach faster.

He wasn’t going to let that happen.

They would get back in time; he was going to make certain of that. If only Jaskier had stayed behind like he told him to. He knew this was going to happen sooner or later; he should have stopped him from coming, or left in the middle of the night. There were countless countermeasures he could have taken to avoid this outcome. He could have even stopped the bard from wandering off alone. He  _ knew _ how dangerous it was in those parts and was very aware of the brunet’s lack of combat skills.

And this was the result of his carelessness. A sick and injured bard, fighting a battle of endurance with his own body. A body that was steadily headed towards ruin. It was most likely taking the man everything he had just to hold it together.

Determination driving him forward, Geralt wrapped a right arm around Jaskier and leaned forward. With that, Roach sped up to a gallop. As she ran, care left behind, the Witcher noticed how the sounds of discomfort had quieted drastically. It could only be assumed that he finally lost the fight to remain conscious. Geralt was trapped between being relieved and troubled. At least he wouldn’t have to suffer through the ordeal the rest of this trip would have been. 

He had to take advantage of the situation. He knew Roach could handle it - he’d put her through so much worse. This was nothing. If they pushed, they could arrive in just a couple hours. She must have sensed her master’s urgency, as she reached a speed he’d rarely experienced, all without the command to do so. 

“Thank you, Roach,” he whispered wrapping the reins tightly around his hand.

* * *

By the time refreshed daylight shone over the earth, Geralt’s attention seeked out the humble civilization just in the distance. It was odd, despite being there only a day earlier, the place appeared foriegn im his eyes. He straightened his back and gave Roach a quick stroke on the side of her neck. 

“Just a little farther,” he encouraged, gaze never wandering from his target. Jaskier seemed to sense salvation as he whimpered and shifted against the Witcher’s chest. 

For the first few minutes, he could have sworn the town remained the same size, or even drifting farther back, running out of their reach. 

“Come on,” he muttered.

He closed his eyes and focused on his own, slow breathing. He did so for a good while, convincing his impatient mind to ease. One more slow exhale and he carefully opened his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he whispered a small thanks to no one in particular when the village approached closer. 

“Hang on,” he told Jaskier, “we’re almost there.” He doubted his announcement was heard. The bard had quieted to a near deathly silence. Geralt tried not to think about it. As long as a pulse, no matter how faint and erratic, pulsed under his hand, then there was a chance. And that chance is all he set at the front of his priorities as he pulled Roach to a stop. In one fluid motion, he hopped down, scooping the brunet in his arms a second later.

He really was  _ not  _ liking the lack of protest he received - or reaction for that matter.

With all the commotion he surely created busting in there like a madman, it was no wonder more than a few patrons stopped to give their sideways glances. One even approached with a furrowed brow. 

“Aren’t y-”

“Where’s your healer?” Geralt demanded, already walking past the man. He had no time for their insignificant questions. 

He didn’t get an answer right away, and something in him snapped. His hands gripped Jaskier’s shoulder and good leg. “Where are they!?” He stood upright, damn near towering over the now cowering man. He still didn’t speak a word, but he did raise a trembling finger and jabbed it just behind the Witcher.

Geralt grunted as he spun back around, his strides long and quick. The bard bobbed lightly in his arms, his flushed and drenched face turning to the side. 

There was no time for knocking or greetings. Geralt used his foot to shove the door open, assuredly splintering it along the hinges with the force. Ignoring shocked gasps and unsettled retreats, he stepped near the first bed he found and lowered Jaskier, extra careful with his lower half.

“Help him.” It wasn’t a request. 

One woman, the one he assumed to be in charge, was the first to recover from his unsavory entrance. As soon as her stabbing gaze landed on the other man, she entered professional mode. Naturally, her wide eyes traveled instantly to his leg, wrapped tightly in a soiled bandage, drenched in blood.

“What happened?” Her voice was low.

“Archespore.” His reply was automatic - detached.

Even from behind, he could see some of the color drain from her face. He tried to tell himself it was his imagination, but that did little to help. He knew well enough what those overgrown bastards were capable of. 

She eventually nodded. “Right, very well, if you’ll just step ou-”

“I’m staying,” he cut in dryly.

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but quickly closed it at the firmness of the man’s jaw. She sighed in defeat. No use arguing, it would only waste what little time they had. “Very well, just stay out of the way.”

Geralt nodded and took a few steps back until the back of his knees touched another bed. Without looking away, he lowered himself and folded his hands under his chin. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of the healers working on Jaskier’s leg, but he couldn’t look away from the bard’s features, twisting in pain as they set to work. The only time he averted his gaze was when they cleaned the wound and his cries could no longer be restrained.

He lowered his head and buried his face in callused hands. He had no idea how long they worked, all he knew was that it took longer than he thought for the bard to wear himself out and faint one again. Geralt muttered his relief under his breath and lifted his head back up. 

For the first time since the night before, Jaskier’s face was relaxed.

“Don’t worry,” a younger healer said from a couple feet away. “He was given some herbs to help him sleep through the worst of it.” He didn’t so much as flinch when she lowered a hand on his upper back, a gesture meant to be supportive. However, the only thing he absorbed was a sense of pity. 

She spoke as if this was all normal, as if she was sure the bard would be fine. But one look at the pile of bloodied rags and reddened water, his doubt with that possibility grew. No one should lose  _ that  _ much and be fine. 

The air reeked with the metallic stench, swirled with a hint of sickness. He swallowed a sour gag from the odor. Geralt counted the seconds as they finished cleaning the wound, applying salves and herbs - medicines he paid little attention to. All before wrapping the appendage neatly in fresh gauze. He blinked when his view of Jaskier’s face was severed by the main healer’s back. So he leaned slightly to his right to watch as she lifted the younger man’s head, slowly drizzling some sort of concoction past his pale lips.

“This should help with the pain and ease his breathing,” she stated, like the question burned straight through her skull. 

“Is he going to be alright?” he asked, getting right to the point as well as his feet. It only took one step for him to stand next to her, head bearing over the ailing bard. It was a nice change to see his chest rising and falling much more steadily, though there was still a raspiness following his exhales.

She hesitated for a second more than the Witcher appreciated. “Well...I have to admit, it’s a downright miracle he wasn’t worse than he was.” It was spoken so quietly. “I have my hopes,” she finally said after a moment, voice louder and lighter.

Geralt didn’t respond, but his mouth did tighten, giving her all the indication she needed to know he understood and went to make her leave. She got to the door and paused to look over her shoulder. "I need to step out and fetch some more supplies, I trust you can keep an eye on him until I get back?”

He nodded, knowing the hidden message. The Witcher stood, frozen for some time as he scanned Jaskier up and down. It wasn't until then he realized just how fragile the man appeared, and he always managed to keep up on their travels.

Geralt stepped next to the bed and pulled one of their stools over. He sat close, extending a hand to cup the younger man's face and mentally took note of his still warm temperature.

At least it wasn't  _ as  _ hot as it had been.

Still worrisome.

He huffed heavily through his nose, gaze finding the small gash at his hairline, already scabbing over. Surprisingly enough, a mild concussion was probably the least of their worries. After all this, the bard could handle a small headache.

Geralt leaned back a bit, getting prepared for the long wait until Jaskier came to. Whatever they gave him, it was enough to put him out and keep him there through all their procedures.

Ready to settle himself in, the Witcher repositioned his seat and himself to lean against the wall. Arms folded over his chest, he made himself as comfortable as he could and gave his weary eyes permission to close.

* * *

Jaskier thanked the stars when consciousness teased the edge of his mind and he wasn't overcome with agony. He was still far from the comfort of moving, but it wasn’t what he could consider unbearable anymore. That is until a spasm attacked his form, and a shudder ran down his spine and through his legs.

A whine climbed up his throat, claws digging deep. His breath caught as he waited for the sting to subside. Slowly, it did as he wished, leaving the abused area resonating with a slight, uncomfortable tingle. That, at least, he could ignore.

The bard lied as still as he could, assessing his body mentally. The first thing that struck him were his lungs - dry and muddy. Coming as a close second was his leg, throbbing in time with the quick beat of his heart. It pulsed fire straight through his veins, almost burning his skin from the inside. He drew in a hissing breath when a sharp jab raced up his calf.

No sooner had the sound escaped did a hand grip his shoulder, beckoning his attention. Through the pain, he cracked one blurry eye open to seek out the hazy figure looming over him. And even though he couldn’t quite discern their features, one name instantly came to mind and slipped out without him meaning to.

“Geralt?” He barely heard himself, so it was a surprise that the Witcher was able to make it out.

The older man drew closer, revealing more of his features. Jaskier squinted, not missing just how exhausted the man appeared. 

“You a’right?” he croaked, wincing at the way the question scraped. 

Geralt lowered his head to hide his features and hummed to himself as he pulled his hand away. “You’re the one you should be concerned about,” he said after a moment. “I’m not the one who nearly got myself killed. I’m also not the one who lost nearly half my blood and puked up half my guts. I als-”

“I g’t’it,” Jaskier slurred with a couple of heavy blinks. He tried to pull himself to sit up. Only to raise about an inch and fall right back down with a gasp. 

“Yeah, moving around might not be the brightest of ideas right now.”He shifted, Jaskier caught the slight squeal of leather as he did so. "Here," he said softly as he grabbed something from the table and held it towards the younger man. 

The bard eyed the mug, eyes searching its contents curiously. His brows knit as an odd odor hit his nose.

"Drink it," Geralt ordered, pushing it closer. "It'll help ease the pain." ' _ Not to mention you're still dehydrated,  _ he added in his head. Jaskier still stared at the ceramic, but the Witcher didn't move it. He wasn't going to either. He wasn't giving a choice.

Jaskier's face pinched, but he took the offered beverage in two shaky hands. Geralt helped him to sit up, keeping one supportive arm firm around the back of his shoulders. The bard inhaled deeply, grimacing at the bitter stench.

He sighed. No use and delaying the inevitable. Holding his breath, the brunet took a testing sip, fighting a cringe when the full flavor hit his taste buds. He pulled it away with a groan. 

"Tastes l'ke shit.' His voice was tight.

Geralt shook his head. "It's not supposed to taste good. It's supposed to be effective."

Jaskier whimpered softly, but brought the lip of the mug back to his mouth. He closed his eyes as he drank, hoping not seeing it would ease the richness. No such luck. It was twice as foul when it was the only thing to really focus on.

He could only get through half of it before yanking it away and shaking his head weakly. "I can't," he mumbled. His whole body shuddered with the lingering aftertaste.

"Very well," Geralt hummed out, taking the cup in his free hand and setting it aside. "I guess any amount is better than nothing." He paused to look at the remainder. "Just try to drink some more later."

Jaskier's lips pressed, but he nodded.

"Right now...just rest," Geralt instructed as he helped the bard lie back down. He instantly sank back into the sheets with low hum. He didn't realize how drained he still was. Awake for only a few minutes and it felt as though he hadn't gotten a wink in days.

And yet, he struggled to relax enough to find sleep. He lay there, restless and fidgeting as much as his aching body was able.

Then, something settled in the pit of his stomach, the reason for his sudden insomnia. Jaskier opened his eyes part way, and his dulled gaze sought out their golden counterpart.

"I told you to sleep," Geralt muttered without missing a beat.

"C'nt," the bard slurred, clearly running low on already stretched energy. He took a deep breath and let it tremble back out slowly.

Geralt grunted and went to stand up. "If it's because of the pain, I can get one of the hea-"

"No."

The Witcher paused mid step, an arch in his brow. But, without question, he sat back down and watched the other's uncertain features for a short time. 

Until the bard finally spoke again after some silent deliberation. "'M'sorry." The words were clipped, as if to stifle a trailing choke. "I did'n mean'ta-"

"Jaskier, stop."

The bard tensed, the action doing no favors for his leg. 

"As obnoxious as you are, I don't believe you'd be stupid enough to cause harm to yourself on purpose."

It was spoken so casually. He took a deep breath - there had to be a way to say this without it coming across the wrong way. But…

"This is why I told you to stay behind," he muttered. His eyes darted to the bard' s face to gauge his reaction. Surprisingly, there wasn't much of one, almost like he had expected this. "I tell you to stay back for your own sake. Not mine. It's dangerous out there, hardly a place for someone of your profession."

He inwardly cringed. Perhaps a bit too harsh on that last part, but he had to say it. Had to make sure Jaskier knew where he was coming from.

The younger man sighed heavily and lightly closed his eyes. "I knew th'risks. But wha kinda life is sittin' all cozy'n'safe all your life?" His voice was growing hoarser by the second.

Geralt shook his head. Men could truly be reckless and stubborn. He glanced back at the smaller man's leg, and his lips tightened as he thought about how his fear had been confirmed. 

It would be a while before Jaskier could walk normally again. With all the muscle damage he suffered, he wasn't surprised. Which meant no more tagging along for some time. It was still possible for him to join. But if it came to them getting in a pinch, he wouldn't be able to run far if at all. 

Geralt's fist tightened over his knee. This was just wrong. It was something that shouldn't have happened. But he also knew deep down that it wasn't his fault.

He knew it wasn't.

So why was guilt a nagging mistress in his ear?

He shook these gnawing thoughts away. He didn't need that on top of everything else. Right now, Jaskier getting well was the priority. They could worry about everything else later.

This was so unlike him though. He wasn't  _ supposed  _ to care at all. Since day one he'd been trying to get this persistent bard off his back, and now that he had the chance, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

' _ Dammit.' _

"You really are a stubborn bastard, huh?"

Jaskier smirked with a wince. "Can't spread legends by bein' complacent." His features scrunched and a small hand rose to rest on his chest. "Maybe I should drink mor'of that stuff," he mumbled. But he made no move to do so, and Geralt realized it was no more than a fleeting thought.

"When you wake up," he replied flatly. "For now, sleep." He pushed himself up as Jaskier's frail frame was already relaxing. Speaking lowly, Geralt assured, "I'll be just outside if you need anything. Just call."

There was an incoherent mumble as the bard drifted. Falling into a real slumber at last.

Despite it all, he knew he- they would get through this. Jaskier was surprisingly a tough one. As bad as it looked now, they would find a way, and this moment would be no more than a bad memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and sticking around until the end. So glad y'all enjoyed this. ;A;  
> I also decided to leave this open ended in case a part 2 is wanted. I have an idea for it already. ;D

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what ya'll think so far. Don't know how long this will be, but I have 2 more chapters written already, so it will likely be 4.


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